


Confined

by AlexMeg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Brotherly Love, Dean Helps Sam, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam has a Panic Attack, Slight Hurt Sam Winchester, Worried Dean Winchester, brotherly hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexMeg/pseuds/AlexMeg
Summary: Set 11.22, We Happy Few. In which Lucifer is a dick with a very twisted sense of humor, Sam gets a panic attack, and Dean is the angry, overprotective big brother who wants to pummel Satan with his bare hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Language, spoilers for S11, graphic descriptions of panic attacks (and derealization/depersonalization due to them), mentions/implications of torture and past sexual abuse (It's one line and is a bit more blatant than the level of implication about it in the show). Please turn back if these are triggers for you. If you 'woobify' Lucifer (characterize him with traits that make him someone to be sympathized with), this is not a story for you (which, I suppose, is obvious by the summary).

 

As his room revealed itself to be empty when he opened the door, he tried not to acknowledge the knots loosening in his chest, about them even  _being_  there in the first place. Tried not to think about how his heart jolted in terror when he finally managed to push the door open, and that being after a few minutes of trying to muster up all the courage and strength he could. It was hard to admit it when his Winchester pride got in the way, when he thought about how it had been years now, and he had already faced him so many times before, but he was still so goddamn  _afraid_.

He couldn't let himself think too much and too deep about it all though, couldn't let himself dwell too much on it, because he knew if he did, he was sure he would have a meltdown of some sort. Dean seemed to think he had it all together, that he was absolutely okay and unbothered, and he wanted to keep it that way. There were bigger and more important things to worry about than the emotions brewing just underneath the surface, that if he let in would make it all too hard to keep doing this, keep fighting the fight, and quite possibly jeopardize the entire mission.

And he couldn't do that. He needed to keep his head in the game, keep it straight and uninfluenced by the waves of rippling fear and anxiety that flowed through his veins every time he was even in the same damn  _room_  as him. He needed to set it all aside, needed to not  _think_ , about the entire situation and how  _sick_  it made him feel all over to be living in the same space as him, about all the horrific things that had happened down there with him (and to talk to him and look at him like they had never happened at all was hard), about the images in his head that he was constantly terrified of even though he knew they  _wouldn't happen_ , not with Chuck there.

It made it easier to have Him there. Felt safer. It made his lungs a bit more open to breathe, the vice around his gut a bit more loose. Having Dean there too... sometimes his shoulder would brush against his and he'd calm down just a fraction. His heartbeat would slow slightly, his stomach not so tight and aching. In these circumstances, even the moments of minor relief felt prominent. He didn't know if it was on purpose, if it was done knowingly or accidental the way it often was, but it helped nonetheless.

He walked towards his duffel bag. Lucifer didn't bother at least leaving his things out before hijacking his room. He couldn't quite tell if this was what he thought it was, some cruel way of mocking him and showing him that he had the power, that he could still do whatever he wanted and Sam couldn't fight back because he was too damn afraid (the way he had always been i— no. No. Damn it. Can't go there). Maybe it wasn't. Maybe Sam was just being paranoid. Lucifer seemed to have found better things to occupy his time and focus with, which...thank God.

They weren't  _there_  anymore. There was a lot more to do out here. There, it was millenias' worth of rage and vitriol and nowhere else to let it all out on except him (and on top of that, he was the one to hurl him back down there, so that just made him even more furious at  _him_ ). There, it was too much boredom and too much time and nothing to do but tort—

_Can't go there. There are bigger and more important things to worry about than me having a fucking panic attack and puking my guts out._

He rushed towards his closet. He'd just take necessities; clothes, some weapons, toiletries, and then he'd be out. It shouldn't take too long. Hopefully it would be long before Lucifer came back from wherever the hell he was.

It was one thing to be around him and talk to him and see him while there were others around too, and another thing to be caught alone with him. There was always that logical, rational part of him, keeping him sane and above water and from having that mental breakdown he so dreaded, that told him he could count on nothing bad happening to him here when God Himself was around. Along with that, that little irrational, habitual and instinctive part of him too that had always sought out his brother for feelings of safety, security and comfort. The logical part of him knew that Dean was just human, couldn't really protect him against a being like Lucifer, but somehow, he still felt like he couldn't be hurt by anything or anyone if he stayed close to him.

He had all his clothes unceremoniously dumped in the bag. He went into the bathroom to get the items he needed; his toothbrush, his toothpaste, soap, shampoo and conditioner.

But when he came out…

His heart dropped down to his feet before stopping altogether, steps jerking to a halt.

Because there stood his biggest goddamn nightmare. The very reason he had been  _having_  nightmares again.

Well, just his crappy luck.

When the fallen angel caught sight of him, his eyebrows twitched in surprise. He tilted his head curiously, smirking.

"Sammy, Sam, Sam. Sam-I-am. What brings you here?"

Sam could feel his lungs constrict, feel his breaths about to come short and fast. He tried to control his breathing, dug his nails into his palms to keep himself grounded with the pain and counted to ten, his heart hammering hard in his ears, his stomach heavy and nauseous.

"To my room, you mean?" Sam said defiantly, chin raised, and it took everything in him to stare him steadily in the eye and to keep staring.

Lucifer straightened his head. He held his eye-contact, so effortless and easy, and all Sam wanted to do was look at anything but him, wanted to make a run for it and not glance back.

And then he started taking steps towards him, coming closer and closer. Sam's ribs tightened more and more with each bit of distance crossed, his speeding heartbeats jolting. He knew that at this point, with how high his chest was rising and falling, how erratic his breaths sounded through his nose despite his desperate attempts at keeping it regular, even Lucifer could see how how hard he was trying to make himself seem cool and collected.

The gleam in his eye told him he was failing.

When Lucifer got within three feet of him and still kept coming, Sam started to back away. He threw a quick glance at the door, wondered if he could make it if he bailed out now.

His back hit the wall, and his eyes finally broke away, looking down. He glanced at the door again briefly. It was far, and angelic instincts were fast, but maybe… maybe, he could make it.

He forced himself to stand his ground.

"I just came to get my stuff," he said, his voice not quite as even as he aimed for it to be, quivering the slightest bit. He swallowed, head raised, the back of it touching the wall, in forced defiance (and in the need to be as far away from him as possible). He couldn't bring himself to drag it back to Lucifer's eyes, so he gazed past the trench-coated shoulder (felt a pang in his heart when it reminded him of Cas). His hands tightened around the strap of his duffel bag, knuckles going white.

"I still scare the hell out of you, don't I, Sam?" Lucifer said, voice low, that mocking smirk still on his lips. There was no air moving past his lips, even with how close his face (their friend's, Cas') was to his.

He couldn't  _breathe_.

It was happening, his brewing emotions, mainly comprised of pure and utter terror, reaching their threshold, breaking free and rising to the surface, manifesting as the panic attack he was trying so hard to control, but it was so damn hard when everything inside of him and outside of him felt like a wild car ride with no steering wheel or brakes or seatbelts. He couldn't breathe, air going in and out of his lungs through his mouth, short and fast and hard. His head felt light, and he was swaying on his feet. There were black dots beginning to cover his vision, dancing around.

"Let me go," he gasped out, felt hot and cold and light in his head, absolute, icy panic washing through his veins. He had faced him before, before Hell, in Hell, and then again in that small cage. He had looked him in the eye, told him no when he tried to persuade him to let himself be possessed by him again, stood up to him even though it took everything in him to. He couldn't understand why it was so much harder now to do the same thing again.

"Why?" Lucifer asked, simple and casual as that. He grinned. "This is fun."

"I'm s-so-fucking glad th-this is amusing- f-for yo-ou." He wheezed out a bitter, sarcastic laugh.

"Oh, it sure is. You see, I've been in a really crappy mood these days." He shrugged his head. 'You know, what with all of these daddy issues and stuff going on. It's just…" He pursed his lips, head jerking. "It's just been  _very_  annoying. And we've spent enough time with each other for you to know what happens when I get annoyed, right? I've just been  _dying_  to tear someone apart."

Sam clenched his eyes shut, swallowed hard. "You c-can'—can't do any-thin'—h-here."

"Well...I mean, if you really believed that, you wouldn't be panting like a bitch here, you get what I'm sayin'?" He clicked his tongue, shaking his head, and chuckled. "And please. You don't really believe my dear ol' daddy actually cares that much about you, do you? Dirty-blooded boy like you? And Dean?" He leaned in closer, trying to get him to look. "I just have to snap my fingers like  _this_." A loud, sharp clicking sound. Sam flinched hard. His knees were weakening and trembling, so he laid all of his weight against the wall behind him.  _Fuck_. He needed to get away. His body was shaky and weak, hot and sweaty. His chest hurt from lack of air and the gripping terror coiling itself around his heart. "And you'd have his guts all over you."

The image made his stomach jolt violently, but he forced it down. His eyes watered, everything blurring in front of him.

He lurched forward, trying to rush past Lucifer.

The archangel just caught him by the middle and flung him right back against the cement. His eyes clenched shut, back colliding hard with the wall, and the pain and force of it knocked out what little air he had left right out of his lungs. The vertigo finally managed to overcome him, and he dropped down to the floor, duffel bag beside him. He pulled his knees close to his chest, head hanging, and tried to force himself to regain air again.

"I can lock the doors, Sammy-boy. Soundproof the room. And we can relive all the fun times we had down in the cage," Lucifer said, ending in a slight singsong tone. He was looming over him, and he didn't dare look up, because to see him in such a position of higher power would only aggravate the panic. He felt something wet drop down his cheek. "What you say?"

This wasn't really happening, was it? It couldn't be. This didn't  _feel_  real. The world seemed like something strange, too bright and loud, but at the same time, like he was watching a low-resolution movie. It was like his brain couldn't process any of the things he was sensing and thinking, all of it too much, too overwhelming. He was wheezing spasmodically. He felt like he was watching this happen to someone else, but he knew he wasn't. He knew it was happening to  _him_. He was about to be torn apart again.

He couldn't be here again. He couldn't be about to go through those things again. It was supposed to be over. It was never supposed to happen ever again.

He desperately wanted to call for Dean, the one name that always came to the tip of his tongue when he was in danger or hurt, but he couldn't find his voice through the gags due to lack of air, the fear choking him and leaving him breathless. And he couldn't put his brother at risk. Not for himself. Lucifer could hurt him, and he couldn't let that happen. But then he supposed, Amara wouldn't let that happen either, but there was no way he was taking that risk whatsoever.

It was in that moment that he heard a smothered laugh. Sam tentatively glanced up, couldn't see as clearly through the stars in his dimmed vision, gaze darting up before immediately coming back down, but he caught the grin Lucifer had on his lips. And then he spun away, threw his head back, his body folding as he clutched at his abdomen, the loud laughters ripping out of him.

When they dissipated into small chuckles, he turned back around. He lowered himself to kneel down in front of him, his wrist hanging off his upturned knee. "Look at you right now," he whispered. "Remember the first couple of years? You had such a mouth on you. God, it pissed me off, but well...I sure shut that mouth of yours up soon enough, didn't I?" He smiled, head inclined. "Made some good out of it too."

Sam gagged, more tears gathering in his eyes. He swallowed down hard, his stomach almost emptying itself right then and there. He breathed in and out, counted to ten in his head, shoved his nails into his palms again. It didn't really calm him down, but there was nothing else to do.

"Re _lax_ , Sammy. I was just messin' with ya," Lucifer waved off, chuckling. "But I mean...you do kinda need to tone down on that overreaction of yours. I didn't even touch you, you know? You were shaking in your boots before I even walked in."

Sam felt a flush of humiliation and shame in his aching, hammering chest, but didn't have enough space in his mind to focus too much on it.

All he wanted was to get  _away_.

When Lucifer stood up and backed away in a clear indication of allowing him to leave, he grappled himself shakily into a standing position, heaving heavily, still leaning on the wall. The archangel stepped aside, watched with a grin as he  _ran_. Rather, he staggered and stumbled the whole way out as fast as he could.

He burst out of the room and collided right into someone in front of him, sobbing and gasping.

"S-sor-"

"Woah, woah, hey!" It took him a few seconds through the muddle of his panic to recognize it as Dean's voice. His hands grasped his elbows, but his knees were too weak and trembling and his body was too heavy and his head was too light, and he folded to the floor, wheezing. "Sammy?" Dean's urgent tone held a note of anxiety and worry, his hands following him down to the floor, coming up to grab at his face when they finally landed down. "Sammy, hey! What happened? Are you hurt?"

"D-De'n..." Sam managed through the heavy, strangled gasps, the terror that rushed all throughout his body and seized his heart overwhelming him. And damn it! He didn't want this. He didn't want Dean to worry and know that he wasn't holding it all together as well as he thought. He had enough on his plate as it was. "M'fi-ine-"

"Like hell you are!" Dean growled. Sam figured that was not bound to work when he was actually choking the words out.

Dean's gaze flicked up and down his body, examining for any serious, life-threatening injuries. No blood. He wasn't clutching at anything except the bottom side of Dean's jacket, fingers curling into the material. He seemed to have caught on that it wasn't any agony from physical injuries making him suffocate like this, but rather something very emotional and mental.

"Alright," he muttered gently. "Alright. Hey." He hauled him into his arms by his elbows, Sam's chin pressing into his shoulder, mouth gaping as he struggled to breathe. He tried to adjust his body against his in a more comfortable position, and when he secured him properly, gripped the back of Sam's head, the other hand scrabbling to reach for his. "Where's your hand?" he muttered, trying to keep calm and composed, fingers clambering down his right arm, the one that was closest and not occupied with gripping Dean's jacket, with a slight, controlled franticness. "Gimme your hand."

When he finally caught it, he tugged it up and placed it against his own chest. "You feel that?" he murmured, settling his cheek against the side of his head. "Come on, Sammy. Breathe with me. Just breathe." He inhaled and exhaled deeply, ruffling his hair and close to his ear, his chest rising and falling against Sam's hand.

Sam tried to follow the rhythm of the sounds of his breathing in his ear through his strained, spasmodic wheezes, the up and down motions of his brother's chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on drawing in air, on letting Dean's steady heartbeat mollify his own rapid heartbeats, the regularity of them gradually washing the panic away.

When he began to settle down after a couple of minutes, his heart not quite trying to slam out of his ribs and his breaths a little more in his control, Dean encouraged, "That's it. You're doing good, Sammy." He tightened his grip around his back briefly, brought his palm up to the nape of his neck behind his locks and squeezed it. "Shh… everything's okay, little brother. You're safe. You're safe. I got you."


	2. Chapter 2

 

A while later, Sam had calmed down almost completely. His heartbeats were nothing more than dull thuds against his sternum when Dean placed his fingers against it, his breathing practically uniform except for the slightest flutter of instability. He spent a couple more seconds with his face burrowed into Dean's shoulder, before he slowly released him, sitting back. Dean let him go, but kept his palms firmly on his shoulders.

Sam wiped at his cheeks, hair curtaining his ducked face. His back was hunched, and when his hands came away from his cheeks, they lowered down to his lap. The classic, but rare, Sammy-feels-humiliated-as-fuck-and-doesn't-know-what-to-do-about-it posture. The vulnerability of the sight cut through Dean like a knife in his chest.

Well, fuck that. If Dean thought what it most definitely could be that brought this on, then he didn't get to feel ashamed or embarrassed or whatever for reacting the way he did.

"He do something to you?" Dean asked, felt that burning rush of protective fury coursing through his body. Sam's head snapped up, eyes slightly wide and brows raised in surprise. Seriously? He thought Dean didn't even  _consider_  what this whole situation might have been doing to his baby brother? Having to see and talk to that winged bastard like everything was fine and dandy?  _Share_  a place with him after everything that he had done to him for two fucking centuries? Sam had been damn good at seeming normal, he had to give him that, but if Sam thought he had him fooled, then he had another thing coming.

He figured Sam knew. Dean had been trying to help him out in little ways whenever he could, whether that was subtly brushing his shoulder against his when the kid was so tense next to him (felt pretty satisfied with himself when Sam calmed a little just by that contact) or trying to make sure somebody was between Sam and Lucifer whenever he could. He knew Sam had been trying to hide his inner turmoil, but in all honesty, Dean wasn't sure of how to bring it all up.

Dean didn't know the details on what that son of a bitch did to Sammy. If he was being honest, the only reason he was keeping his necessary cool right now around Lucifer was probably  _because_  he didn't know, so it was for the better, in a sense. He wasn't sure he'd be able to contain himself if Sam ever told him everything. Archangel or not, he  _would_  start throwing punches, which would not really end well.

"He hurt you in any way?" Dean questioned, kind of felt his heart jump with fear, because even if there weren't any big injuries, if that fucker had put a hand on his brother…

His hand shot out and grabbed the hem of Sam's shirt, lifting it up before he could protest. Fuck fuck  _fuck_ —after seeing that panic attack, he swore to God, if Lucifer had touched a  _hair_  on Sam's head, he'd—

"Dean! Stop, I'm fine," Sam insisted (which, yeah, sure, he'd believe if there wasn't that faint, controlled quiver still in his voice), batting his hands away. Before Dean let go, he had gotten enough of a view of his front to be satisfied with the answer. "He was just being a dick. He didn't hurt me."

"Well, he did  _something_  bad enough to make you come out of there looking like that…"

The fact that he had the goddamn nerve to take Sammy's room out of all the others in this giant-ass bunker… Dean would have liked nothing more than to pummel the son of a bitch into the ground if he could. He sure as shit wouldn't mind trying.

"Dean, just...forget it, alright? It's not that big of a deal." But the way he inhaled shakily, low and quiet, lips quivering, indicated otherwise. "I...he didn't do anything. I-I think I just...maybe I kind of overreacted." He huffed out a nervous, embarrassed laughter, bringing up a trembling hand to rub at the back of his neck.

And Dean couldn't fucking understand  _why_.

Why he wasn't pissed and upset, why he was minimising all of this, making the matter seem a lot smaller than it probably was, considering the kid was this close to passing out when he saw him. He didn't know if it was because of something Lucifer said or if this was his way of dealing with everything that just happened, or if he just didn't want Dean to worry (did the kid even  _know_  that that was literally impossible for him?). He didn't know if it was for him or for himself. Even so, for him to be saying that at all… either the moron fell on his head and somehow forgot that he went through  _two hundred years of endless fucking torture_ , or he really didn't have enough faith in Dean's intelligence to think that he wouldn't fall for it.

Sam seemed to realize that Dean wasn't having it after a quick glance up at him from under his eyelashes. He inhaled, gaze landing back to his upturned palms in his lap, swallowed down whatever he was feeling, and Dean thought he could see his eyes shining slightly in the light, all sad and doe-eyed beneath his furrowed brows.

And then he trampled right over his heart as he shook his head, quietly, softly said, "It's fine. I'm-I'm fine. I mean, I—I have to be." He half-smiled, but it doesn't reach his eyes at all, in a failed attempt to be reassuring. "There are more important things than my, um…" He waved his hand vaguely, swallowing. "This...you know? We can't… we can't lose sight of the bigger picture here. We need him if we're gonna take down Amara."

And well,  _shit_  if that didn't break his fucking heart.

Because he was sitting there, telling him that his centuries worth of trauma was not that important and that his sense of safety and security was not that important and that he should be  _okay_  with staying in the same space as and seeing and talking to the monster that hurt him for what must have been several lifetimes down there.

And Dean knew that the world was at stake here and the bastard would be a lot of help in their fight against The Darkness, but God. This was not okay in any sense of the word.

There was once a time when Dean wasn't forced to consider the greater good of the world over justice and vengeance for his brother, when it was as simple as  _anyone that hurts Sam gets hurt twice as bad_. He missed those easier times, missed just going out and beating up all the bullies that tormented his little brother or killing any monster that hurt him or bashing the face of any guy that tried to fuck with him. Problem solved. Back then, he didn't have to feel this void and helplessness of wanting to do  _something_  but not being able to do any-goddamn-thing at all.

These past years, he'd been feeling it a lot.

Maybe he couldn't remove Sam's abuser from their life completely right now, which fucking sucked, but he sure as hell could make sure that he stayed the hell away from Sam the whole time they were forced to stay with him.

But before that, he needed to knock some sense into the dumbass, and then find out what the hell happened.

So he grabbed his brother by the chin, tugged his head up to raise at level with his. Sam's eyes snapped to his own instinctively by the force of the gesture. "You listen to me. I don't ever want to hear something like that come from your mouth again, you understand me? Because what that monster did to you…"

And then Dean felt slightly strangled by the lump in his throat, because he could only  _imagine_  (and that was only because he had an experience or two with Hell, even if his had been a lot more different) what that statement meant to Sam.

Sam, who suddenly sucked a shaky breath in like he was suffocating all over again and was trying to look at anything but him, wide eyes flittering away towards the ground, and Dean thought, with the anguish cutting across his face, the weight of the horrors of his untold past, that it may actually be a  _really_  good thing that he didn't know, because he had no idea if he'd be able to take it. He didn't know if he'd be able to live with Lucifer still living (and that was hard enough to do right now as it was).

Dean wrenched his pained gaze back to his own. "No, no, hey, look at me.  _Look_  at me. It's okay. It's okay. Sammy… Sammy, I know. I know you're hurtin'. I know it's hard and scary, and you sure as hell don't have to pretend it's anything but."

Sam's eyes were slightly damp, his eyebrows furrowed into a frown, his jaw clenching in restraint, and he looked too weary, too burdened by the weight of the terrible memories that only he knew of. Dean's hand shifted to rest on his cheek instead. "Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I can't take you far, far away from him. It's all I've wanted to do since he's stepped through our doors. I'm sorry you have to do this. I'm sorry you were forced to  _save his life_. If it were up to me, believe me, I would have had his ass kicked out before you could even  _look_  at him again… and I hate that I can't. But what I can promise you is that this won't happen again, you understand me? I'm gonna look out for you, make sure he never does this again. You trust me?"

It took him a few seconds to answer, a flicker of hesitance and the barest hint of guilt in his features. "Dean, you know I do, but…" Sam's lips tightened, and then he exhaled lightly. "Man, you really don't have to worry about me. I can deal with this."

And here the moron was after being driven to the point of having a panic attack, sitting there telling him he could handle it all on his own, worried about not making Dean worry (again, did he not know him or what?).

"I don't doubt that. Trust me," Dean said. Sam was the toughest person he knew. Saying no again to Lucifer while he was trapped there with him and with all the horrendous history in that cage… he knew that without a shred of doubt. "But you shouldn't have to. Not with him."

Sam swallowed, chest raising at an inhale as he glanced down at his hands. Dean wished the damn kid would let himself be taken care of sometimes without thinking twice about it.

Dean sighed, shoving down the frustration rising in his chest. He let go of his face. "You gonna tell me what the hell happened in there?"

Sam's lips pursed. "It doesn't matter. You're not going to do anything about it."

 _Watch me_. Dean's jaw clenched, and he smiled dryly. "Okay...one more time.  _This_  time, you're going to  _answer_  me, or I go in there and interrogate that bastard instead."

Sam shot him a bitch-face in response, glaring at him for the blatant manipulation.

"Sammy...I need to know how bad it was."

"And I'm  _telling_  you, it wasn't as bad as you think."

Something told Dean that he had a very skewed perception of what 'bad' really was.

"Yeah, try again, this time without the bullshit."

"Dean—"

"Sam, I swear to God, if the next thing out of your mouth isn't an answer—"

It was only after a couple of minutes of pushing that he finally broke.

"Damn it!  _Fine_! He told me he could lock the doors, soundproof the room and then we could 'relive all the fun times we had in the cage'. And then he waved it off as a joke and told me not to be overdramatic. Is that what you wanted to know?"

Dean went momentarily silent at the revelation.

And then he was fucking  _furious_ , smoldering anger coursing through his veins like fire through gasoline, burning in his chest. His fists clenched hard, fingers and knuckles whitening, because how fucking  _dare_  he—

He shot up from his kneeling position on the floor to his feet. Sam's hand shot out at the same time, wrapping around his wrist.

"Dean…" Sam said, in that placating tone as if he thought he made things worse and was trying to make it better now. "Look, that's pretty much all he did. Just...talked a lot of crap and then let me go."

"You know what I don't get?" Dean snapped, jerking his hand out of Sam's grasp. "Why you keep trying to hold me back from going after him."

"Because it's not worth it."

"If somebody tries to fuck with you, Sam, it's always worth kicking their asse—"

"And I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'll be fine."

"I'm not letting you take that risk."

"I'll be fucking  _fine_ , Sam. Now get off me."

"Dean, please."

"Just gonna have a few words, Sam—"

"Damn it, Dean! Don't you get it?" he whispered through grinded teeth, his voice growing desperate, eyes red-rimmed and wide. In that moment, Dean was sure he looked almost as scared as he felt. "He…" He swallowed hard. Dean never wanted to see that look on his face ever again. "I know what he can do." Dean's chest sunk, felt kind of stupid and madder than he already was that he couldn't figure out Sam's thought process before he told him. "And I know that with Chuck here, there's no way he could really do anything, but uh…it's in my head, you know? A-all the things he's done to m—and I keep...I don't know. I just...i-it kinda freaks me out to think of him anywhere near you too."

There was no way Dean could go against those damn eyes and those words now. He breathed heavily as the anger still burned and the sorrow that reflected Sammy's weighed inside of him, but he rubbed a hand down his mouth as he slowly lowered himself back down.

For the next couple of seconds, nothing was said.

"Was that all he did? Didn't put a hand on you or anything?" Dean then asked quietly. Sam's gaze was fixed on his hands again, and it took him a second too long to nod. "The truth, Sam. I won't do anything stupid, promise."

A couple of seconds of silence. And then a mumble, "My back hurts a little."

His eyes fell shut, trying to reign in the anger and sorrow that was getting harder and harder to hold in. "You told me he didn't hurt you," he growled.

"Just a bruise, Dean. I've had worse."

Dean knew that. Of course he did. He once got shot in the stomach, almost got choked to death and went into shock, then woke up (alone) and managed to take down two werewolves, get to the car and drive all the way to a clinic just in time to save his ass. His baby brother was a fucking badass.

But the thought of  _Lucifer_  specifically doing anything to Sam after those two hundred years, after the year  _he_ himself spent, constantly dreaming and thinking of the possible horrors that could have been happening to his baby brother right then (taking ideas from his own shit experience, except maybe ten times worse), searching for a way to get him out while it all pushed down on him that every second he wasted here was probably  _hours_ of torture for Sam down there…

After all of that, even  _this_  felt like crossing a limit.

"I, uh...tried to get past him and… he shoved me back against the wall a little too hard," Sam explained.

"Let me see it," Dean ordered. He waved his hand towards himself in a 'come here' motion.

Dean expected Sam to put up another fight, preparing himself mentally to be firm and keep his patience, but instead Sam released a low resigned sigh, sounded a little too tired, and slowly unbuttoned the first four buttons of his shirt, let it hang over his shoulder, and twisted around to allow Dean the view.

He carefully stretched down the collar of his undershirt. Sam had the barest of grimaces on his face when the material peeled back.

Dean took a look to find that it was a bit more than ' _just_  a bruise'. It was a giant-ass bruise, in fact, bigger than the size of Sam's own head, and it was already turning a deep shade of purple and blue. Sure as hell would look even worse tomorrow. He rubbed a hand down on his face, shoved down the flare of fury and the urge that was born once more to go and stab that bastard in the face, mighty archangel powers be damned.

And damn it, this was nothing compared to every injury they've ever had but this fucking felt  _too much like crossing a limit_. After everything, this was one wound too many on his baby brother's body from him.

He couldn't ram his fists into Lucifer's face, so he put it to a wall instead.

He twisted and slammed his knuckles right into the cement  _hard_ , the loud smack and the angry, strangled grunt sounding throughout the corridor. Sam flinched next to him in his peripheral vision.

His burning hand fell away shakily, waves of pain radiating up to his fingers, the groan escaping from his lips. His other hand came to cradle his injured one. He glanced down at it with a grimace, the skin on his knuckles deeply reddened into a potential bruise, soon to become stiff and swollen.

"You okay?" Sam asked, concern softening his hazel eyes, grabbing Dean's hand. He pulled it close to look at it.

Dean didn't answer, couldn't speak through the emotions burning in his throat.

Instead, he moved his hand out of his grip and laid it on the nape of his neck tremulously, grasped his uninjured one onto Sam's collar and tugged him into his arms, murmuring, "C'mere. Swear to god, if he ever comes anywhere near you again…"

**...**

Dean outstretched his hand down at him. Sam gripped it, allowing him to pull him to his feet.

"Get some rest, Sammy," Dean said, sliding his hand out of the grasp to give a pat to his shoulder. "You look beat."

"Yeah…I feel it too." Sam huffed, and then shrugged. "But well… I mean, all the other rooms are probably gonna be full of cobwebs and dust bunnies right now..."

If he let himself think about how much he hated Lucifer again, he wasn't sure how he'd be able to stop himself.

"Don't worry about that. Just pick a room or whatever. I'll clean it out for you."

"Yeah…" Sam muttered, glanced down at his shoes. Dean wasn't sure if he really sounded down about it or if he was just tired.

"Something wrong?" Dean asked, head tilted slightly in order to catch his expression as he stepped closer to him.

Sam's head snapped up, eyebrows raised. "What? No. No, it's...it's fine. That sounds great. Thanks."

Dean stared at him, examining his expression and body language. His gut feeling, combined with the internal Sam-dar that was tuned into his brother's emotions, was telling him that something was not  _really_  fine.

"It's just, uh..." Sam began, mouth tightening as if he wasn't sure if he should really speak or keep quiet about it. He sighed. "I don't know if I'd… if I'd really like any of the other rooms right now...you know?"

 _I don't want to be alone right now_. Dean got it right away, heard it clear as day in the underlying vulnerability in his voice. It made his chest ache again, and he wished the kid would stop saying and doing things that do that to him.

It took him a few seconds too long to answer.

"But, uh…" Sam tried to backtrack, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. He looked around, eyes roving over the multiple doors, chuckling nervously. "I mean, I guess I'll just have to pic—"

"What about mine?" Dean asked, shrugging casually like he didn't hear the vulnerability in his words at all.

Sam paused, looking at him. There was relief loosening something behind his eyes, one breath exhaling out of his lips easily.

And then he shifted his weight on his feet. He looked down to the floor, lips flickering into a small huff of a smile. It morphed into a playful one as he glanced up to him once more. "Always wanted to try that memory foam of yours, I guess."

"Getting a little ahead of yourself there, Sammy. I never said anything about you taking the bed." Dean raised his eyebrows, wearing the same kind of slight smile as his brother's at the pointless, childish banter that lightened the atmosphere up a little after all the crap of the day.

"Well, I mean… you're not gonna make me take the floor with  _this_  back, are you?"

"It's my bed, bitch."

"Jerk."

He already knew he'd be taking the floor anyway, even before the little shit turned on those damn puppy eyes of his again, nose scrunching up slightly, and went, "Just once?"

**…**

"'ey' De'n?"

Dean raised his head, as he was setting the sleeping bag on the floor, to glance at his brother. Sam was lying on his stomach on the memory mattress, an ice-pack settled over the wound on his bare back. His voice was droopy and slightly slurred from fatigue, his eyes closed.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Your mem'ry foam's awes'me."

He snorted. "You only get to use it 'cause I felt bad for your back. And 'cause you made that stupid face again, you spoiled brat."

"Thank y'u. Rea'ly."

Dean rolled his eyes. When would the kid understand that he never had to say that to him just for him doing his job? "Shut up."

"I me'n it." There was too much sincerity and meaning behind his words for it to just be for the bed and the room.

Dean sighed, patted his patched-up hand on his calf. He felt a swell of adoration in his heart, and it came through in his soft voice, in the little flicker of a smile at his lips. "Yeah, alright. Good night, Sammy."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. The ending is so rushed. This has been sitting in my documents for weeks. I revisited it almost every day hoping to add to it, and yet, for some reason, I just couldn't do anything better.
> 
> So I'm posting it right now. I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless! I hope it made you feel somewhat better like it did me after writing it. Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> One more chapter to go!
> 
> So, this is for those who hated what the writers did in the later part of S11. It was very upsetting how they overlooked Sam's trauma and abuse at the hands of Lucifer and forced them to work together. They made him save his life, without any acknowledgement of how it must have felt to do that for his torturer of two hundred years, and to have to be that close to him... it's even worse when you consider the implications behind Lucifer's remark at the end of 11.09. It just made sick. I don't often express distaste (disgust in this case, because this was a horrible thing they did) for anything the show does, because I love the characters and I'm just glad I get to see them anew every week, but this was the one and only time that I couldn't stand this show.
> 
> For anyone who feels the same way, I hope this story, particularly the next chapter (not vengeance, but the acknowledgement of the horror Sam went through and the expression of anger on his behalf) will make you feel somewhat better about this.
> 
> If you have a minute, please let me know your thoughts! Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome as long as it's polite and respectful.


End file.
